


The Five Stages of Going Native

by chestertonwhoknows



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale voluntarily touching a garden tool, Jealousy, M/M, Sexuality Crisis, idiots being idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 11:29:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19333648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chestertonwhoknows/pseuds/chestertonwhoknows
Summary: Aziraphale is surprised to discover he has a sexuality. Written for lgbtfest 2009 at LiveJournal.





	The Five Stages of Going Native

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to minkhollow and S. for betaing!

**The Five Stages of Going Native**

**I. Denial**

At first, Aziraphale believes he is being punished for botching up the Apocalypse.

"I don't know," says Adam Young, never one to tread softly. "Seems to me, if they'd wanted to do something, they'd have done it ages ago, when it would have been at all relevant."

"Well, don't underestimate Patience just because he's a Virtue," says Aziraphale defensively. He hasn't stopped fidgeting since he sat down. "I wouldn't put it past the bugger."

Adam puts his head in his hands. "Mr. Fell, what exactly is it you want me to do?"

"Why, make it stop, dear boy," cries Aziraphale. "I should think that would be obvious."

"No," says Adam. "Near as I can tell, nobody's been messing with you. I'm not about to start."

"Once again, my dear, you fail to grasp the gravity of the situation. Even in the unlikely event that Upstairs hasn't caused this, what do you think They'll do to me when They find out?"

Adam scowls. "Angels are supposed to Love everybody, aren't you?"

"Opinions vary," Aziraphale mutters. "We're certainly not supposed to _love_ anybody."

There's a slight pause, and then Adam raises his head. "Have you told Crowley about this?"

"I don't think you understood me before," says Aziraphale coolly. "This is hardly a common occurrence. If it were proper for my kind to feel this way, He'd have made us so that we did."

Adam chews his lip thoughtfully. "That's why you're not telling Crowley?"

Sighing, Aziraphale gets up from the sofa. "I've known Crowley for a good deal longer than you have, my boy," he says, reaching for his overcoat. "He'd be the worst person to talk to."

"Don't be so sure," says Adam. "People can't surprise you if you won't give them the chance."

"Yes, well. Thank you for the _tea_ ," Aziraphale says pointedly, and leaves.

What Crowley doesn't know won't hurt either of them.

 

**II. Anger**

The squeaky top step is their only warning before the door swings open.

"Aziraphale, do you want to come," Crowley starts to say and then doesn't. The expression on his face is a perfect mirror to Aziraphale's mute horror. For a long moment, the silence hangs in the air between them like a smoke cloud, thick and suffocating.

"Too late for that, I'm afraid," the human next to him pipes up, and Wrath has never taken pride of place on Aziraphale's curriculum vitae, but it's a lucky thing he hasn't got his sword on him just now.

Crowley, however, only blinks at the human. His throat is working, but no sound comes out.

Aziraphale fumbles around desperately for something, _anything_ , to say that would excuse this.

"I'm sorry," Crowley says unexpectedly, in an odd, hoarse voice, and then he's gone.

"I shouldn't have said that," the human—Nicholas—says as soon as the downstairs door slams shut. "I didn't realise he was your ex, or I wouldn't have put my foot in my mouth."

"The two of us were never lovers," Aziraphale sighs, rubbing at his face tiredly. "Crowley and I work together; he's a colleague. A friend. Someone who wouldn't understand."

"You're not out?" Nicholas asks, looking baffled.

"Hm?" says Aziraphale, not really listening. _Young people and their slang_ , he thinks, feeling the weight of his age in a way he hasn't since they stopped the Apocalypse. This shouldn't be happening—he tried to make it go away, surely that ought to count for something?

It isn't until Nicholas puts an arm around him that he realises he's shaking.

 

**III. Bargaining**

Aziraphale presses an unsteady hand to Crowley's doorbell. He's never had to use it before.

After a few minutes, the intercom crackles to life. "Yes?"

"Hi," Aziraphale says into the contraption. Uncertainly, he adds, "It's Aziraphale."

"I know what you sound like," it tells him, with no particular inflection. "Come on up."

Normally, Aziraphale would take the lift. Today, he's climbing four flights of stairs to put off the confrontation with Crowley. He feels sick to his stomach. Between the two of them, up until now, he's always been the one who held the moral high ground; it's how they work.

Crowley is stiff and formal. "I shouldn't have just walked in," he says. "It was presumptuous."

"I like how we've come to presume things about one another," Aziraphale says, quietly.

But Crowley looks away. "Well, like I said the other day, I'm sorry. Water under the bridge?"

Just like that, Aziraphale knows this is it. Crowley isn't going to get over this one. An insistent pressure builds behind his eyes. He wishes today were yesterday, and he could do the whole stupid thing over again. He wishes he could climb into bed and sleep for a million years.

"All right," he says, brightly. "Glad we've got that cleared up."

 

**IV. Depression**

It's not even close to a million years when he gives up and starts scouting for the telephone.

The person on the other end picks up on the first ring, a sure sign it's meant to be.

"Hello," says Aziraphale, rubbing at his eyes. "I'd like to check myself in, please."

 

**V. Acceptance**

Aziraphale has been in the monastery for six months when Crowley comes to see him.

"You know," he says, materialising in the orchard while Aziraphale is doing the spring raking, "when I said, 'Water under the bridge,' I didn't mean, 'Go find me some.'"

"Thank you for that observation," says Aziraphale. "Surprisingly, this is not about you."

"No?" asks Crowley. "I think we both know you didn't pick this place for its bucolic charm." He shifts his weight to lean against a nearby tree and puts his hands in his pockets. "A human, Aziraphale? Seriously?"

"What was I supposed to do? I wasn't about to ring up Gabriel and ask him if he'd fancy a go."

Crowley looks at him searchingly. "Is that all it was, then? An experiment?"

"Yes." Aziraphale gives the rake a last, frustrated tug before throwing it aside. " _No_. I'm not in love with him, if that's the question. But I don't regret it." Meeting Crowley's eyes for the first time, he adds, "It was perfectly lovely, and I shan't be made to feel ashamed of it any longer."

"I'm not trying to make you feel ashamed," says Crowley quietly, looking away.

"Well," says Aziraphale uncertainly, after a brief pause. "Good. I'm glad. To tell you the truth, dear boy, I've come to value our friendship rather more than I'd anticipated—rather more than Some might deem entirely appropriate, I daresay—and I should hate for it to end over this."

It should have been Crowley's cue, but he lets it go by, head turned towards the monastery's main building, shadows and sunglasses conspiring to keep his expression unreadable.

"Twelve years," he says instead.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Twelve years," Crowley repeats. "That's when he's going to die. Brain tumour." He taps the side of his head, just behind his ear. "Wars have lasted longer. His own cat will outlive him."

"Consider the disaster averted," says Aziraphale, with an irritated wave. "I had no idea you were so concerned with the tragedies of the human life cycle."

"The real question," says Crowley, as if Aziraphale hadn't spoken, "is of course where your boy will end up. Did you know he used to set fire to anthills for a lark? Pour salt on snails? Did you know about the time he stole money from his parents and got the maid sacked?"

"No," Aziraphale admits. "I know he worked for Doctors Without Borders for six years."

"Yes, well," says Crowley bitterly. "If that isn't compensating, I don't know what is."

And that's when the penny drops like a tonne of bricks on Aziraphale's unsuspecting head.

"Crowley," he says, in the tone of voice one might use to address a cornered animal with a collection of sharp, glittering teeth—on a trophy necklace. "You're not…jealous?"

The corners of Crowley's mouth turn upwards; it isn't quite a smile. "Took you long enough." At Aziraphale's baffled look, he adds, "Did you think you were the only one to go native up here? Happens to the best of us. Don't you remember the Nephilim?"

"I do," says Aziraphale. "You made some choice comments about them at the time."

"Well, He sent a flood to rid the Earth of them, so I can't have been all wrong," says Crowley, sheepish. His face softens slightly, and the sunlight filtering through the pink apple blossoms makes him look a little as if he were wearing a crown—or a halo.

"I can't imagine why you'd be jealous," says Aziraphale quickly, before the endorphins can give way to embarrassment. "Surely you know there's no one dearer to my heart."

"Yeah?" says Crowley. "So why didn't you just ring _me_ up and ask if I'd fancy a go?"

"I…didn't know that was an option," says Aziraphale, and swallows. "Is it, still?"

"That depends." Crowley looks over his shoulder at the monastery. "Do they have phones?"

"One phone line, but it's only to be used for emergencies. Don't even think about tying it up."

"I'm sure I've not seen _everything_ you and your human have been doing, Aziraphale," says Crowley, deadpan, "but you don't generally bring that sort of thing up before the first kiss."

"Oh," says Aziraphale, licking his lips. "In that case, I suppose we'd better get it over with."

*

"That wasn't so bad," says Crowley, two minutes later, panting a little.

"Mm, it wasn't so good, either. No offence, my dear, but your technique could stand refining."

"It's not like I've done this before," Crowley mutters, and proceeds to get some practice in.

*

By the time he's progressed to Aziraphale's satisfaction, the sun is setting and the dinner bells are ringing out. "You're not planning to stay here any longer, are you?" he asks.

"Good Heavens, no," says Aziraphale. "They make us pray for an _hour_ after meals."

Crowley grimaces sympathetically, and leans in again. "I can't imagine Upstairs is going to be too pleased about this," he says in between kisses, voice overly casual.

Aziraphale's mouth crooks down at one corner. "No, I expect they won't."

"We could ask Adam to help us hide it," says Crowley. "He's hidden bigger things than this."

For a long minute, Aziraphale looks at him, considering. Then he says, "Let's not."

They're living on borrowed time as it is, and he can think of better ways to spend it.


End file.
